Etchings in Verse (Underhill)/Fragment

by Andrew Findlay Underhill

FRAGMENT.

CURST is yon stream that glides singing along;
Curst are the banks that must hear its grim song;
Curst are the pebbles that sleep in its bed;
And curst is the pool that lies at its head.

Demons of evil dance near it at night;
Shadows flit o'er it when Luna is bright—
Dim, ghostly shadows, that have in their eye
The dregs of a curse that never must die.

Phantom-like fingers oft dip in its wave,
Making a plash like a knell of the grave,
Sprinkling the wave-drops like poisonous blood,
Ruffling the breast of the ebon-like flood.

Gigantic hemlocks lament by its side,
Moaning a dirge o'er the fast flowing tide,
Casting their shadows, that fall like a blight
Athwart the deep gloom of the Stygian night.
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